Ow, that hurts
by SheyRicci
Summary: Don't worry, Jody said. Just a few hours, Jody said. He won't be any trouble, Jody said. Jody sure does say a lot.
1. Chapter 1

She slipped into the room, closing the door with a soft snick behind her and continued across the room to the small kitchenette where she set her bag of take-out on the counter. It was cold out, being winter in South Dakota, and she removed her coat, wet from a rain/snow mixture and hung it in the shower to dry before moving about the motel room/suite making as little noise as possible. She'd only been standing outside, waiting for the delivery man but she was chilled through.

The room was dim; towels draped over the lights in the bathroom as well as the one lamp next to the sofa she allowed to remain lit. There was no other light. The heavy curtains were pulled across the window, the plug for the digital clock lay on the floor, the TV was off – not because of the noise, but because of the flickering light from the changing pictures. Even the light from the 'fridge had been removed, her cell was on vibrate and kept face down and the room landline was unplugged from the wall jack.

Let him sleep. Let him sleep. Let him sleep. She chanted as she set a mug of water in the microwave to heat so she could have hot tea with her cold hoagie. She truly wished for soup, but soup was hot and hot food had a wonderful aroma and that – smell – was a no-no. She removed the mug before the microwave timed-out – wouldn't do for the bell to sound – no sirree, wouldn't do at all. She dunked a tea-bag into the mug and sat down to her pathetic dinner, wondering – again – how she allowed herself to be talked into situations like this!

***_ a lot earlier – like hours ***_

Jody, Sheriff Mills, reached across her desk for the file she'd put aside, buried, conveniently forgotten and ignored. She'd delayed reading its contents for some time now. Really, after all she'd experience in the last four to five years of her life, reading about a bunch of high school kids defacing public property with adult graphic graffiti was nowhere on her list of things that needed her attention. _Nowhere!_

She was reaching for her mug of fresh coffee when her desk phone rang. Eh, to answer or to applaud technology. Voicemail, what a wondrous invention.

"Sheriff Mills." she sipped from her mug, trying not to slurp. Wasn't good manners to be caught eating or drinking while on the phone. Aahh…so good. Maybe a bit more sugar.

"Yeah, hey….this here is Deputy Holt, over from Turner County way."

And she was worried about her telephone etiquette?

"What can I do for you deputy?" she asked, tearing open a sugar packet with her teeth. She swirled and swished the mug about before taking another sip. Much better.

"Well, don't rightly know." he mused. "Got a perp…..swear he gave me an alias, but when I ran it, came up with an outstanding arrest warrant issued by your office."

Huh? Alias? Now that just didn't make any sense….she paused, mouthful of hot coffee. Oh-oh. Maybe she should pay Holt better attention. "Name?" she rasped, gulping the coffee.

"Sure…sure…..Singer."

"Singer? You have…?" no, she rechecked her thoughts sadly, not Bobby. Sniff, snuffle….wait…..what was he saying? "You….aah…..have him in custody?"

"Sure do. Disturbing the peace, unruly conduct, public inebriation, threatening and assaulting an officer…" he was saying, she'd missed the rest of it.

"I see, I see." she muttered. "Right, well, okay then….did he give you a first name?" Dean, had to be Dean.

"…..thing is Sheriff Mills," Holt rattled on, either ignoring her interruption or not having heard it. "Our Sheriff is out of town, and I thought, maybe, you being a Sheriff and all, you might, you know, come get him and take him off our hands. You know, to your county?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"He sure does scare the crap outta me." Holt blurted out.

"Right, of course." Jody said amused. Little ole Dean? – 'cause she was sure it was Dean. "No, of course, I'll come get him." she promised. "I'm leaving now."

***000***

Yup! Boy, she loved being right.

"Hey there, Dean." Jody greeted, roughly two hours later, standing with the deputy outside his cell. "Hi ya. Been awhile." she frowned when he neither moved nor greeted her. "Unruly conduct?" she questioned the deputy skeptically, eyebrow quirked in doubt. "Assault? This guy?"

"Yup." he handed her the key to unlock the cell. "Guessin' he's a might too friendly with Jim or Jack." he waved a hand at the cell. "I ain't going in there. You want him out, you take him out."

Well, that didn't make any sense, Dean could hold his liquor. She eyed the dangling key, okay, so apparently, she being a Sheriff was all that mattered to this deputy. He was willing to send her, a petite female, into a cinderblock jail cell with an enraged, dangerous bat-shit crazy dude (the deputy's description upon her arrival) simply because she was a Sheriff. Good to know. The dumb ass had no way of knowing she knew the prisoner personally. If she didn't, she never would set foot alone in a cell with any man. Hell, she never would have come without her own men as an escort.

"Dean." Jody squatted down next to the cot. ""Hey?" she leaned across him, taking a whiff of his breath. "Huh." she didn't detect even the slightest scent of alcohol. "Okay then, well…..if you aren't…..under the influence….." she looked up to see the deputy watching her from the safety of the other side of the closed and locked iron cell door. "Bar fight, you say?"

"Yes, ma'am." he kept a hand on his holstered gun. "Reckon you know him, then?"

"Was he injured?"

"Naw. Too much to drink. Hopin' he'll've slept it off."

"Has he been like this since you brought him in?"

"No ma'am. He got real quiet like then went to sleep."

"And it didn't occur to you, it might be something more than an alcohol induced rage?"

"Seem too many of them not to know one when I see one."

"Sure." Jody muttered. "Right. How about you go start the paperwork for the transfer?"

"I'll send one of the men back to keep an eye on him in case he wakes up."

"You do that. And unlock this door before you leave." Jody waited until he was out of sight then checked Dean for any noticeable injuries. She called him repeatedly, smacked his cheek several times and shook him until the bed rattled before she got any kind of reaction.

Upon opening his eyes, responding to the lure of hearing his name called repeatedly, all Dean could discern was, he was sprawled on a lumpy mattress. He blinked, squinting against the light that drove spikes through his aching head. Before he screwed his eyes shut in an attempt to block the light that caused him nauseating pain, he recognized the uniform, if not the person, standing above him. No, wait; he opened his eyes a second time. Two persons, there were two persons – people, whatever, bobbing and weaving like balloons. God damn he wished they'd stand still.

"Officer." he licked his lips. Great, he was under arrest – again. He put his wrists together and held them out for the handcuffs. "Wha'd'I'oo?" his hands dropped to his chest when they weren't taken. "M'I under 'rest?"

"You're already _in_ jail." she said, exasperated. "You with me here?"

"Yum-hum, I'm here." but he didn't move. "Oofff." he winced, raising a hand to his forehead. "Mmmm. Ow...that...hurts."

Jody frowned, mind racing, suspecting drugs, spell, hex, incantation, god only knew with this one or...she eyed his forehead...maybe just an injury. But having found no other visible injury, she had to be content with the vague response she did manage to get from him.

"Dean….hey, do you know who I am?"

"You…? You're…" he paused, eyes opening once again. "Officer…..ers."

"Officers? It's just me Dean." she said perplexed but the truth was dawning. "Shit."

"Two….two of you." he swallowed a groan. "Two...to take me...out?"

"You see two of me?" she tried to regain his attention but gave up in frustration within mere seconds. When she tried to get him to sit up, his movements were awkward and jerky. He failed to respond to her, her questions or acknowledge he knew her. When she snapped her fingers, he winced and ducked away. She took hold of his chin and held his head steady.

"You know, big guy, I'm no expert on head injuries, but I'm going to say, you had your wits addled." she released her hold. "How do you feel?"

"Ow...that hurts." silence, then. "Sleepy."

She stood and let herself out of the cell. "DEPUTY HOLT!" she bellowed.

She signed the necessary papers to legally transport her 'prisoner', allowed two of the deputy's officers to get Dean on his feet, cuff his hands behind his back and walk him out to her cruiser where they roughly dumped him in the backseat and abandoned her. Eager to be on her way, she didn't comment. She drove out of sight and pulled over to release Dean from both his cuffs and the backseat.

"Dean? Talk to me? You're scaring me here kiddo. Dean?" she waited. "Come on, sit upfront with me."

"Tired." he mumbled, letting his head rest against the window and making no move to remove himself from the backseat. "Stay here and….and take a nap."

"Yeah, sure. You do that." she have his arm an pat and returned to the driver's seat. "You nap until I get you to the nearest ER."

She settled for the nearest urgent care clinic. He roused to get out of the car and follow her inside but was unable or unwilling to answer any questions upon check-in and it wasn't long before the doctor, alerted by his staff to the uniformed officer in check-in, was attending him without the usual wait.

"Dean? I'm going to wait out here, okay?" Jody backed around the curtain. "You…you be good. Dean? Okay? You understand me?"

"Does he require…..?" the doctor paused, waiting to see if she understood. Was he a prisoner? Was he in custody? Perhaps they should remand him to the hospital for the duration of his custody.

"He's not in custody." Jody assured the man. "He's my fellow officer." she read his frown correctly as he surveyed Dean's scruffy appearance. "Undercover." she added quickly. "Narcotics."

"Aah." the doctor nodded, finally satisfied. "Thank you, Sheriff."

The doctor wasn't long. He met her in the waiting room and promptly urged her to take him to the nearest hospital for either a CT scan or an MRI, perhaps both. You know, to rule out bleeding, swelling, blood clots and/or brain injury.

Say what?

His initial diagnosis based on the patient's inability to answer questions such as; was consciousness lost, and yes, it made a difference whether it was seconds or minutes, was nausea or vomiting experienced, how long ago had the head injury been experienced, combined with; confusion, loss of memory, slurred speech, complete lack of equilibrium, unequal pupils and sensitivity to light, sound and smell; was a grade 4 concussion.

Grade 4? Weren't there only three grades of concussions? What the hell was a grade 4?

There was a lump behind the patient's right ear and another over his left temple. The level of bruising and lack of swelling by the ear suggested the injury to be several days old while the goose-egg on the temple had been acquired within the last four to six hours. Two head injuries in less than a week mandated an immediate trip to the ER. You know, intracranial hemorrhaging and all.

He required further testing, unavailable at their limited facility, and overnight observation. Putting him in a car and driving him home was out of the question. Under no circumstances was he to be transported via a plane, flying was out of the question, doctor's opinion, of course. Dehydration was too great a risk and to do so risked permanent brain damage. (What the….? Yeah, way to go there doc, scare the crap out of the Sheriff!) They could transport him by ambulance if the Sheriff wished it.

"No, no…..no." Jody shook her head. "He's awake, yes? I'll drive him."

The hospital knew they were coming. The clinic had called ahead and once again, Jody took a seat in the waiting room, with an outdated magazine to wait. A nurse eventually approached to inform her they were taking her partner for a CT scan and if she wished for a bite to eat or a cup of coffee better than what the machine dispensed, the hospital cafeteria was open and she roughly had a two hour wait for further information.

CT scan? Huh. Well, it was why they'd come to the hospital.

So, down to the cafeteria she went. It'd been a long day, and a sandwich and soda sounded better than sitting in the uncomfortable chair flipping through a magazine she wasn't currently capable of reading.

***000***

Whew, good news. No skull fracture, no bleeding or swelling on the brain – no traumatic brain injury. Oh crap, bad news. They insisted on keeping him for observation, wishing to monitor him for signs he required a MRA, he insisted on leaving. Yes, MRA, no, not MRI, they were vastly different. Why? – To monitor him for blood clots of course.

Dean won that battle.

Riding in a car five-plus hours to home was neither advised nor allowed though Jody didn't understand how the doctor would stop him. A cool, dark, quiet room with limited activity, restricted access to lights, sound, smells, movement and mobility was mandatory for a week.

A week?! Mandatory? Was this doctor insane? He certainly didn't know Dean Winchester if he thought for one minute the hunter would be content to remain in bed for a week! She couldn't babysit him for a week! Wait, what? What was the quack saying? Watch him for what? Bring him back why?

"Dramatic worsening of symptoms, such as: Severe headache, slurred speech or poor enunciation of words, impaired writing, impaired ability to read or understand writing, inability to name objects, failure to recognize who he is, where he is or who he's with, change in vision, inattention to his surroundings or poor orientation to time, loss of coordination and ability to perform complex movements, drooping eyelid or sinking of one eye into the socket, poor gag reflex, swallowing difficulty, or frequent choking, drowsiness or difficulty awakening, seizure…" the disapproving tone droned on and on and on, as though reading from a text book, then paused.

Jody gulped.

"Officer? Are you giving me your full attention?"

"But…I…..he….we….." Jody took a deep breath. "I'm from Sioux Falls, doctor."

"I see." he was silent. "Well, I suggest you talk him into staying."

She tried. She failed. When she threatened to go and leave him there, he simply gave her a lazy smile. She knew what that meant. Soon as she was gone, he'd find his own way out and god only knew where he'd end up then. No, better she knew where he was.

"Where's Sam?" she asked. "Dean?"

Dean didn't answer.

Now that she thought about it, where _was _Sam? She hadn't seen their car at the police station. She hadn't thought to ask about it either, so either Sam had it or it was at the bar where Dean had been arrested. "Let me make a few calls." she told the doctor, who nodded his approval so she stepped out to place her first call to Deputy Holt.

The deputy told her the name of the bar where he'd arrested Dean. The person who answered the phone at the bar informed her no black muscle car was in their lot or anywhere on their property. Sam's cell went to voice mail so she left a message. A return call to the deputy revealed no weapons or bags of any sort had been found with Dean. That told her his car couldn't be far away. She returned to Dean, and after much cajoling and even a few threats, she gained enough information to believe the car was at a motel he'd been staying at. Another phone call to the bar and she got the name of a motel within walking distance. A call placed to that fine establishment – ha! – confirmed that Dean Singer was a guest and yes, a black muscle car was parked in front of his room. Great, she'd take him to his motel, hang for a bit until Sam arrived, wish the brothers well and hightail it home, she had work to do.

Okay then, Jody, you have a plan. She liked having plans. Everything always went her way when she had a plan. She thanked the doctor who frowned at her disapprovingly while Dean signed himself out, somewhat mollified when he learned that Dean would be recuperating in a motel room in town. After advising her to make sure Dean returned in four to five days for reevaluation, he bade them good night.

***000***

Her plan did not go as planned. In fact it went quite awry. Sam had yet to answer his phone, return any of her texts or voicemails or emails. Dean, while not quite combative, was not cooperative either. He weaved and wobbled and would have fallen down had she not wrenched her back supporting his weight. He whined and whimpered over noise and light, still didn't know her, insisted there were two of her and could only comprehend she wore a police uniform.

Once at the motel, she finally got him to understand she was not arresting him, he was not going to jail, she meant him no harm and he was safe with her. Well, at least she thought she'd gotten through to him. He showed no signs of recognizing his own motel room yet made a staggering beeline for the bed. She watched him ignore her, hands on her hips. Apparently he recognized the alluring call of a comfy bed. He stood long enough to shed his jacket, his shirts save a black tee, his boots, which hadn't been tied at the ER, and his jeans before crawling into bed, pale and sweaty from the exertion of doing everything on his own.

That had been that and here she was. She tried to call Sam from Dean's phone, but the screen was locked and he couldn't tell her the code to unlock it. She put down Dean's phone and reached for her own, thumbing a number. The doctor had told her it would be ok to let him sleep, just to check on him every hour or so for any signs of worsening symptoms but under no circumstances was he to be left alone. Every hour hadn't been part of her plan. Her plan hadn't involved her staying with him, it had involved leaving him with Sam, sure that the younger Winchester was somewhere close by. She had to get back to her office, couldn't reach Sam, couldn't leave Dean alone and couldn't take him back with her. Sooooo...oooh good, her call was answered.

Two hours later, Dean had yet to show alarming signs of being worse, but he wasn't in a state where she felt comfortable leaving him alone for any length of time either. The one time he'd gotten up, heading for the bathroom, had been interrupted by a fall to his knees, head held in his hands, a rebelling stomach and blind groping for some kind of support. Not that he accepted any help from her. Oh, hell no.

Her periodic checks on Dean proved uneventful. He slept, rousing when she woke him, even if he wasn't coherent and made little sense. He didn't complain of a headache, both eyes reacted positively to light though he winced and ducked away, forehead wrinkling against the pain the little flashlight caused. One time, he was actually able to provide her with the password to unlock his cell.

Sam didn't answer a call from Dean either. She didn't bother to leave a message. She scrolled through his contacts but other than her own initials, she recognized no one. When he woke and drank some ginger ale, she asked for a valid number to reach Sam. He looked at her as though he didn't know her, didn't provide an answer and went back to sleep.

It was going on ten o'clock when a knock sound ever-so-softly on the door. Jody opened the door, finger to her lips to enforce the need to be quiet.

"Hi Mom." Jody greeted her mother-in-law.

*** _now_ ***

Oh! How had she gotten herself into this situation? How on earth had her day progressed from puttering around the house, happily picking out new slippers from her just-received-mail-order catalog to…to…to…..babysitting a grown, dangerous _criminal_ who scared the crap out of her and until now, had never previously been alone with.

Oh! The things she did for her beloved daughter-in-law.

Her tea was cold, her hoagie soggy and she wanted to cry. The weather had taken an ugly turn. One would expect snow during a winter storm, but no…oh no. No, they were having a thunderstorm and while the loud cracks of thunder didn't upset or disturb her….aah, patient, despite the drawn curtains, the flashes of lightning sure as hell did.

She was tired, it was after ten o'clock and she was ready to seek her bed. She looked around the room, right, what bed? The room had one bed and it was occupied. There was a sofa but…..she nodded, she would call for more bed sheets and make up the sofa for she couldn't very well get her own room. She wouldn't feel safe in a room by herself.

She pushed her mostly uneaten meal away, chin cupped morosely in her palm. Addled as he was, she knew without a doubt, he'd rise from that bed and defend her very life with his own. She sighed and picked the phone receiver up then realized it was unplugged from the wall. Oh well, no matter, she'd just walk to the office. She wanted to call Jody and give her daughter-in-law a piece of her mind! Again!

She donned her coat, retrieved her cell phone, tip-toed to the bed to make sure green eyes didn't stare back at her then let herself out of the room.

"Hey Mom." Jody greeted cheerfully. "How's it going?"

"When you said baby-sit, I naively assumed you meant a young child whose parent was spending the weekend in a jail cell….not….not….well….not…just not this!"

"Now, hold on. Where's this coming from? I never said baby-sit."

"You said 'can you come watch him, sit with him for a day or two'. To any_ normal_ person, that translates to baby-sit!"

"Oh, come now. He hasn't been any trouble, has he?"

"He's knocked senseless! How could he be any trouble?"

"Well." Jody hedged, debating whether or not to share the possible complications the doctor had warned about. She became aware Maggie was still rattling on. "Wait, did you just say…boo-boo?"

"Yes, Jody." Maggie whispered furiously. "Boo-boos. Do you not know what a boo-boo is? It's made all better with a kiss and an hour or two of coddling on the sofa with a blanket and a Band-Aid. Bleeding brains and swollen skulls are not BOO-BOOS!"

"Mom...just calm down..."

"Calm down? Calm down! I will not calm down Jody! Why do you insist on doing this to me?!"

"Now mom, really….you act like you've never taken care of anyone with a head injury…."

"That's because I haven't!" she sing-songed.

"Of course you have." Jody pointed out. "Remember when Sam…..?"

"Sam?" Maggie cut in. "Don't you dare refer to that bump on his noggin as a head injury! And it was three bumps, and a migraine, right? Wasn't that what you told me? He suffered from migraines? Three whacks to that poor boys head and yet you and Dean insisted he didn't have a concussion. Not that it matters, his head injury was nothing, I repeat _nothing _compared to this one!"

"There, now you see?" Jody said soothingly. "Nothing to worry about."

Maggie snorted. "I'm old, but my mind still works. I know when someone's wits are scattered." she paused. "What do you mean nothing to worry about? My good heavens Jody, he can't get out of bed!"

"That's right." Jody agreed. "Because he's not supposed to. The doctor said as long as he remains quiet and inactive in a dark, quiet room for several days, he'll be fine. It's a grade four concuss…."

"Bah, levels and grades of concussions?! I mean, seriously Jody...what the...the...the...what on earth?! Noise doesn't disturb him greatly, but light? Well….."

"There's no brain injury and blood clots don't seem likely….."

"Blood clots?" Maggie repeated weakly. "Blood clots? As in…..in blood clots on the brain? Brain blood clots? You don't mean…ooohhh, I'm going to faint!" she tried to reach the chair at the table but the wall was right there and hey, it offered support. She'd just lean her shoulder against it, catch her breath, wait for her heart to return to its normal rhythm and all would be well. Right? _Right? _

A brown paper bag, she needed a brown paper bag, where had she seen a brown paper bag? Would a white, brown paper bag do? She frowned. What on earth was the matter with her? What was she thinking? A white, brown paper bag? What the hell did that mean? Did brown define the item or the color? Oh, she couldn't think, she couldn't breathe, her chest was tight, her lungs gasped to draw in air. She'd raised five, FIVE sons and not one, had ever made her feel like this. _EVER!_ Oh, the irony, her life snuffed out in some flea-bitten motel room frequented by prostitutes in a skeevy little town. She gasped...she didn't even know where she was!Would that be reported upon her death? Would it be part of her obituary? What would her neighbors think? How would she ever show her face again?

"Mom? Mom? Maggie! MARGARET!"

"I need to lie down. Maybe with a wash cloth soaked in lavender water for my forehead." Maggie said faintly. "I don't feel very well."

"Say what?" Jody cracked. "Really Maggie, now is not the time to be squeamish. Man up." she teased affectionately. "It's just for one night. Sam will be there tomorrow." I hope, she added silently.

"Lavender oil." Maggie said somewhat firmly. "It helps relieve tension, settle nerves and reduce stress."

"Yeah….aah….well…..it's not, you know…..strong is it? Its aroma, I mean? See….."

"Jody, I love you as my own child and there is nothing I wouldn't do for you. I dropped everything to race to you upon ending a phone call with you to babysit a grown man who belongs in a hospital with whatever the hell grade or level or degree of concussion he has." Maggie had made a remarkable recovery! Woo-wee, look at that, anger and outrage made great companions! "And now you tell me you put the welfare and comfort of a dangerous criminal who scares the crap out of me above that of the little ole lady who believed she was coming to console and comfort a _child_?"

"Uh."

"Despite misunderstanding what you meant, I will remain here with him, but I warn you Jody, I have 911 on speed-dial." Maggie sniffed. "Now good-night, I wish to take a hot _bath_ with my lavender oils in what will undoubtedly prove to be a dubiously clean bath tub. I strongly doubt a mere cloth will be effective any longer and you and your concern about its aroma affecting Sir….sir…._.him_ can go to the devil!"

911 needed speed-dial? Jody chuckled as she hung up her desk phone. Aah, you had to love dear ole Maggie!

***END***

* * *

For now. I do believe Chapter Two is knocking at my door.


	2. Chapter 2

*sigh*

Okay, so…yeah….I couldn't leave well-enough alone. Be warned though, I've tinkered with Cas (not Cass, I don't care what the official spelling is, in my world, one S in Castiel converts to one S in Cas, deal with it) and his powers, or lack-of, as well as the 'mark'.

* * *

Plugging the phone in, Maggie retreated to the bathroom and pushed the two numbers that dialed the front desk. The disinterested clerk who answered the phone met her request with silence. When she snappishly repeated what she wanted, he responded with; duh - he was the night clerk, not housekeeping. He checked people in, he didn't make beds. Sure, extra sheets and towels were somewhere, but he didn't know where and he wasn't going to go looking for them. Why not? Wasn't his job. Maid service? This time of night? Was she nuts?

Well, she'd just see about that! She was marching herself right down to that office and slapping her palms on the counter in front of him until he gave her what she wanted! If that failed, she'd go in search of what she wanted herself! Ha, just let him try to stop her. She _dared_ him! She had a violent, dangerous criminal in her room! Let the little creep meet Mr. Dean…..Dean...well Mr. Dean.

Harrumph, she sniffed, reaching for her coat still hanging in the shower and cast a dubious eye down. She froze, gasping in dismay, irritation with the desk clerk forgotten. She backed up a step, groping for the towel she'd draped over the vanity light, hoping the brighter light would reveal the tub was _supposed to be_ grey! Given her reaction, the tub might as well have contained slithering, spitting snakes.

No, oh no. Oh hell no. No, absolutely not. There was no way, _no way at_ _all,_ she was going to set foot in that bath tub. Not now, not ever. Not even to take a shower. Her lips compressed in annoyance until nose met chin. Fuming, she donned her coat and stormed out of the bathroom. What was Jody thinking, asking her to come here to this….this…..this…..deplorable motel? Why, it was positively decrepit and she wasn't going to remain in it one moment longer! She was done, towel was thrown in, she was leaving. She'd been lied to, misled, taken advantage of, placed in danger – for she was sure there were illicit dealings being conducted somewhere on the grounds, no doubt led by that miscreant motel employee who had treated her so abominably. That pansywaist! That sorry excuse for a front desk clerk who allegedly served the guests! HA! Oh yes indeed she was, she was leaving. No reason to stay and nothing and no one was going to change her mind!

Decision made, her mind set, she marched about the room, determined to collect her over-night bag and purse and be done with this place. She refused to look in the direction of the bed, found her keys and stomped to the door. She'd call Jody from the road and let her know she'd left. Sam was on his way, so Dean wouldn't be alone for long, maybe a few hours.

"Meep!" she jumped, opening the door to the surprised look on the face of a small woman, arms holding sheets, a pillow and a blanket, her fist raised beneath her load to knock.

"Signora." the woman smiled and nodded. She didn't wait, stepping forward into the room. Maggie stepped back, too stunned to deny her entrance. The little woman hefted her load in offer, smile faltering when Maggie made no move to accept the offer. "No?"

"My Goodness, you gave me a fright!" Maggie tittered nervously. "Aah…yes. Yes, thank you. Here, I'll take….." she recovered, set her purse aside and reached out for the linens but the woman had already pushed past her.

"Si, Si." she toddled to the bed and stopped when she found it occupied. "Bambino?" she whispered. Nodding, she diverted to the sofa and while Maggie watched, trying to determine what language it was the woman spoke, made the sofa into a comfy, cozy bed. "Si?" she waited for approval. "Si?"

"Do you speak English?" Maggie asked. The woman smiled and stared. Maggie sighed, of course not. "More?" she plucked a corner of the blanket and held up a finger. "Cold." she hugged herself. "Brrrr."

The woman frowned then brightened. "Ah! Si, Si!" she nodded and toddled out of the room, leaving Maggie staring after her.

"You see, Si?" Maggie shut the door against the wind and rain and turned around, previous mission to get the hell-out-of-town forgotten. "Is Spanish and I do believe bambino is Italian. So, are Senora and Signora Spanish and Italian?" she fluffed the pillow, holding it to her face to take a whiff; smelled okay, neither damp nor musty. A closer inspection of the sheets revealed no visible stains and the blanket appeared clean. She was debating - pillow in her hands - whether she'd be warm enough with just the sheet when she felt something hard and cold against the nape of her neck.

Depends, she was going to need to buy Depends, or Poise, whichever was cheaper. Maybe there'd be a coupon in her Sunday paper. She chewed on her lip, if she lived to return home that is. She gulped as a hand touched her shoulder and slowly turned her around. The pillow dropped from her numb hands and she oh-so-slowly raised her eyes to stare at the scruffy, tousled-haired man dressed only in his black cotton 'smalls' who once again, held a gun leveled directly at her head.

"Oh!" she gasped. She stepped back, squinting in the dim light. "You're….um…..you're up." her palm went flat over her heart which surely would beat right out of her chest any moment now. Jody had assured her he wouldn't arise from bed until morning! She retreated yet another step, then another when he didn't stop her. Distance was good, the more the better, though space was limited in the small room, made smaller by his looming presence.

He stood and stared at her, green eyes glassy in the dim light. She frowned; wow, she sure had good eyesight to notice his eyes in the dim light from the draped lamp on the other side of the room! He didn't speak, just stared. She hesitated, took a step forward then two back. No, no, no…..do not approach. View from a distance; preferably from behind a strong, solid, bullet-proof obstacle. She cast a wild look around the room..….nope, nothing solid was seen. Bullet-proof? She choked back a hysterical laugh, recalling cowering behind a refrigerator door when she'd first, aah, met him.

Her mouth has hanging open but she couldn't make her jaw work to close it. Her hand worked though, and she raised her fingers and covered her lips. Still, he didn't move, just continued to stare and it really unnerved her. She used her thumb to force her jaw to greet her top dentures.

"Um." she nibbled at her knuckle trapped between her teeth. Stupid thumb hadn't gotten the job done, but hey, her jaw now worked. Oh dear, she'd never seen such a wild look on anyone's face in all her life. "Um…." she continued to chew on her knuckle, mind running a race with her heart. Which would win? "Um..." good lord, she was gnawing her knuckle bloody! "Um…." good lord, when had the ability to produce words abandoned her? "Um…."

He remained motionless and continued to stare. She didn't think he even blinked.

What to do, what to do…..?...Oh! Do what Italian mothers do! "Are you hungry?" her finger popped from her mouth. Feed him. "Some crackers maybe? The orange ones with peanut butter sound ok?" she retrieved her purse, dug out some singles. "I saw some in the vending machine outside, hopefully they're not stale. Best thing to settle….well, not exactly settle, more like, aah, soothe. Yes, that's it, soothe. Best thing to soothe the stomach when you should eat but don't feel like it. Something to drink? I know most moms swear by ginger-ale, Jody included, but I prefer coke. They sell coke-syrup for a reason you know." she was babbling but she couldn't stop. "I'll just dash out to the machine…" she waved a fistful of ones at him. "Got the money right here." he shied away from the flapping paper in her hand – though there really wasn't much flapping going on – and contrite, she immediately dropped her hand. "Um…." great, she was back to stammering like a fool. Why did he have this effect on her? "Um…."

Who the fuck was she, why the fuck did she act like she knew him, why the fuck didn't she shut up, why the fuck was she with him and was she ever going to shut the fuck up?

Finally! Finally, he blinked. "You…..you…..you….." she stuttered until he winced then she fell silent. Her mouth continued to flap and the hand that wasn't clasped to her chest, fluttered about as though she were swatting at flies. "Oh, my." she really, _really,_ didn't feel comfortable with that look on his face. "Um…." nope, she didn't like the way he was looking at her at all.

Man, his head hurt. And really, he didn't feel well. Christ, what the hell had happened? He remembered the uniformed officer and that was it. Had there been more than one? He thought so. Where the hell was he anyway? What the hell kind of jail was this? And who the fuck was Granma? His mind whirling, unable to voice any of the questions making him confused, his defensive stance eased, his hand holding the gun began to shake and he finally lowered the weapon. He didn't sense any threat from Granma, and with how he felt, that had to be enough.

Soon as he relaxed, so did Maggie. "Here." she forgot her reservations and uncertainty – her determination to be gone from this place just mere seconds ago – and trotted over to the table with two chairs and pulled one out. "Have a seat." she patted the seat of the chair encouragingly. "Come on, right here, sit….sit." the chair wobbled on uneven legs and despite the dim light, she saw him pale. "No? This one then?" she pulled the second chair out and rocked it. "There, steady eddy." she beamed triumphantly. "So, you good?" she was surprised but pleased when he sat down with an uncoordinated plop. "There you go! Now, let's get you something to drink." she puttered about the counter, casting a glance over her shoulder to see his head resting on his crossed arms upon the table.

She frowned. Well, that wasn't good, not good at all, that certainly _couldn't_ be good.

"You hit your head." she offered from across the room, digging through her purse for her stash of acetaminophen. Sam be damned, he wasn't around this time – yet – to yell at her about what medication she gave Dean. She also found the thermostat and bumped up the heat. "The doctor said you'll be all right….." she paused, she really needed to read that file Jody had left. "You just need to take it easy for a few days. You know, restrict your activities, stay in bed, and drink plenty of water, well liquids. Don't ask me why, but apparently the doctor stressed not to let you dehydrate." huh, why was that, she wondered. Maybe Jody's file of information or instructions or explanations gave an explanation. She really had to sit down and read that.

"Uh…..what? Who….?" he hadn't moved, face still buried in his folded arms, so she risked life, limb, her wad of cash and dashed out to the vending machine, praying all the way she wouldn't meet any ladies-of-the-evening.

Dear God, if she didn't shut up…...Dean rubbed his forehead on his arm…..wow, his skull was trying to kill him. That was new…..it was usually his stomach that revolted…...aah, finally, blessed silence. He really should go lie down, see if he could sleep off his headache. No, no, that wasn't right. He didn't have a headache…..his head _hurt. _Shit, she was back and she was still talking.

"You had tests at the hospital." she informed him. Opening a package of crackers, she put three on a napkin saved from her delivered meal, gingerly approached the table opposite the side he sat, set the napkin down and pushed it across the middle towards him. She waited but when he didn't reach for it, she used one finger to push it closer. "The doctor wanted to keep you for observation, but well…..you…"

He should ask who she was. He should ask where he was. He should ask what happened. He should ask what the hell she was doing with him. He should ask why the room was so dark. He should….eat a cracker. Man, his head hurt….he should ask why. Wait….tests? Doctor? He was in the hospital? Then...she was his nurse? He should leave, he shouldn't stay, really….he needed to go….and he would, just as soon as he made his feet obey his command to move.

He raised his head, eyes shielded against the dim light. He blinked, waiting for his head to clear and his eyes to adjust, but no….the room remained dim and she remained, at best, blurry and shimmering. Okay, maybe staying put for a few hours wasn't such a bad idea. Really, where was he going to go anyway? A knock on the door diverted his current train of thought and he turned his head. They knocked on hospital room doors now? His eyes narrowed, since when did they _close_ hospital room doors?

"Sit." she ordered, pointing a finger. "Stay." she paused, but he made no move to get up. "Good boy." she smiled.

Huh, so, bothered by noise, not so much. Light though...well, that was another matter. She needed to replace the towel over the vanity light in the bathroom before he decided he needed to, aah, use the facilities. She padded over to the door, casting a look over her shoulder and stopped, hands going to her hips in annoyance. He once again held the gun steady in his hand. Well, she sniffed, at least he was aiming it at the door, not her head. Then she frowned; now where had he produced that gun from? Come to think of it, what had he done with it once he'd stopped aiming it at her head? He wasn't wearing pants, just his drawers and she was positive male….erhm….underwear didn't possess pockets. She'd know, she'd done a lot of shopping and many a load of laundry while raising five sons and a husband.

"Aah…..yes?" Maggie called through the closed door, keeping a wary eye on Dean. Must be the gun and the ease in which he handled it that caused her freak-outs and bouts of anxiety. Opening it without asking first would surely have him launching from the chair, tackling her and shooting whoever had the audacity to knock. Wow, she _really _had an active imagination these days. Valium, she needed Valium. Was there anything stronger?

"Si, Si, Signora." and a rapid dozen or more words Maggie couldn't understand. "Signora?

Aah, the maid. Maggie opened the door and the little woman thrust a bundle of blanket into her arms. "Bambino!" she announced, head bobbing. "Si?" she was beaming. "Me…." she pointed to herself. "Good?"

"Thank you….Gracias?" Maggie smiled and nodded. The woman frowned, then shrugged and walked away. Maggie shut the door behind her and locked it. "Now, how about…..?" she turned and frowned, tongue clucking. Apparently chewing and swallowing a total of two crackers while waving a gun about had exhausted the poor boy for he was no longer sitting at the table where only one cracker remained on the napkin.

"Aah….." oh please, not the bathroom. Not the bathroom, not the bathroom, not the bathroom! I didn't re-hang the towel over the light in the bathroom! Please, please, please…..oh, whew!...there he was, back in bed, right where she wanted him. Now, to get him to take some acetaminophen, the doctor had told Jody it would be alright to give it to him in moderation.

Now where had he put that gun?

***000***

Maggie lay supine on the sofa, hands folded primly on her chest, elbows hugging her sides. If she had a rosary, she'd be hugging it to her bosom. Exhausted but afraid to move, lest she touch some part of the sofa not covered by the sheets, she rested with a cloth soaked in bottled water and lavender oil on her forehead covering her eyes. Had she had to lie on the sofa itself, she'd be sleeping in her car – if it were still there. She didn't doubt it could be gone; stolen for parts. She really should look out the window, see if she saw it, but oh, she just didn't have the energy! Holding her breath while trotting - _trotting at her age_ - to the vending machine just a few doors down had depleted her reserve of bravery and stamina. She was safe right here on this sofa and here was where she was going to stay.

The maid had brought her an afghan and a quilt that had obviously come from the maid's trunk but other than a snag or two, a couple of holes and a few worn thin spots, both were clean and smelled like detergent. She'd given both to Dean, and before she'd retired to the sofa, had been pleased to see he appeared more comfortable from the added warmth.

She mentally made a shopping list: Depends, (her poor seventy plus year-old bladder) flip-flops, (no way was she touching that tub with any part of her bare self) shower cap, (let that water touch her hair, ha!) loofah, (use a motel wash cloth, pfft) towel that wasn't so thin it was see-through, (she was entitled to some pampering) liquid body soap, (the thought of bar soap made her light-headed), bottle of acetaminophen, (she had a limited supply – phooey on Sam) thinking-of-you card for herself, (she needed some consoling) chocolate cake, (diet, what diet?) coffee...oooh...Irish coffee, so bottle of whiskey, (that cheap, bottom-shelf bottle over on the counter simply wouldn't do) coffee maker, (couldn't make coffee without a coffee maker) flowers, (the room needed some color and flowers cheered her) paper bags, lunch size, either brown or white, for the panic attacks she'd be driven to, (she was sure she'd be able to make a deal for illegal drugs right here on the motel grounds but had no idea how to go about doing so. Dean would know...it's how he probably obtained his own stash)...apparently counting items to buy at the store was more productive than counting sheep for she was soon snoring.

***000***

Dean woke in darkness, to silence and the utter awareness that he had no idea what the fuck was going on. He couldn't recall where he was or why, how he'd gotten there or why he felt like shit. Easing on to his back, the familiarity of his usual grade of motel room gradually became obvious. He was in bed, warm and comfortable nestled under a cocoon of blankets with numerous pillows supporting his aching head.

Aching head?

He slowly sat up, stomach grumbling its displeasure. It took him a moment to realize it was growling because it – he – was hungry. Odd, he didn't feel much like eating. His head was strongly advising him to forget about appeasing his stomach or satisfying his bladders demands and keep his aching, abused body right where it was – in bed. Yeah, he should listen and do just that, but he didn't.

As he reluctantly struggled to push free of the blankets, eager to return to their warmth, bits and pieces began to flash through his memory. The bar, jail, cops, doctors, motel….Granma. He felt a stab of regret as he shuffled into the bathroom. He didn't know who she was, didn't recall her leaving but….yeah, it'd been nice not to be alone; to have someone offer him something to drink and give him a blanket, just….be around and….he paused, allowing his eyes to roam at will…..ok, not a hospital room nor a jail cell. Oh right, motel room….his, if he remembered correctly and he wasn't sure he did…..remember correctly.

Ow! Damn the light hurt. Hurt his eyes, hurt his head, hurt him. The light in the bathroom was muted, its harsh brightness dulled by a towel draped over it but its bite still drove a spike through his forehead. Right, he switched the light off - pee in the dark, dude. Besides, thin as those towels were, probably wasn't a good idea to expose them to the hot light. Finished, he padded out to the kitchenette. He wasn't hungry but his stomach still insisted on sustenance. He didn't find much, six-pack of beer on the counter – now why wasn't it in the 'fridge? – bottle of whiskey, he wavered….no…better not…..packages of crackers…huh…..sure, why not? He opened the 'fridge, tried to sit the six-pack on the bottom shelf but it wouldn't fit. The 'fridge was dark - weird - and he couldn't see why. Cursing, he set the carton down and groped blindly in the 'fridge to find the offending obstacle.

Coke? His beer had been removed from the 'fridge - he was sure he'd put it in the 'fridge, he always did - to accommodate bottles of soda? What the hell! Growling, he made a circle with his arms and gathered the bottles of soda and started to remove them but...fizzy, sweet soda sounded good. Beer forgotten on the floor, soda left in the 'fridge, he sat down at the table with a coke and reached for a package of crackers. Someone, no doubt the mysterious Granma, had made an effort to see to his comfort.

Shit and Fuck It To Hell! Stymied and defeated by a cellophane wrapper!

Okay, well, whatever the hell had happened, he wasn't going to be doing any driving anytime soon. Hell, he couldn't even open a package of crackers! Great, he'd need to call Sam and notify of him of the slight delay. He snorted, slight delay, yeah right. He could weave a string of lies the Pope would believe, but Sam? Coming up with a convincing lie to get past Sam was hard enough when he was on his game, but doing so while hurt would be impossible. And nothing would get past good ole Sammy when it came to him being responsible for Dean's health and safety and well-being. Nuh-uh. And Sam would feel responsible 'cause he'd wanted Dean out of his way.

Well, Sam could just get the hell over it. This was all his fault anyway. He'd sent Dean on an errand to retrieve some odd, hard-to-find ingredient needed for some spell to ferret out elusive information on the 'mark'. He was expected back…when? Oh-oh. Well, Sam was heavily pre-occupied and likely wouldn't panic until Dean was several hours – if not a day – past check-in. After all, Sam had been the one to insist he was close to a 'break-through' and didn't want to be disturbed; whatever the hell 'break-through' meant. And it was Sam who had initiated the protocol, 'don't call unless the store screwed up the order' and insisted Dean call the burner emergency phone for he wouldn't be answering his cell or responding to emails until he'd completed his 'work'.

Pfft. Dean was just fine – well, aside from his current headache. As for the 'mark', the cause of Sam's current snit-fit, he'd learned to pretty much control it and its effects on him. Really, unless he got pissed off or frantic, it didn't much affect him t'all! Convincing Sam of that however…..

Enough. Sam could fret and fuss until he pulled his hair out in frustration. Hell he had more than enough, he could stand to lose a few strands. Dean smirked, the cracker turning to sawdust in his mouth. Okay, he'd had enough. He pushed the package containing the remaining crackers away, twisted the top off the bottle of coke and tipped his head back to take a drink. Ow, yeah, not a good idea. Duh Dean, don't do that. He got up to search for a glass, and was distracted by a noise coming from the….the….the sofa? What the fuck?

Hand curling around a knife he pulled from a bag sitting on the floor, his gun across the room, he rounded the table and approached the sofa. Grey hair…..grey? Granma? Aah, he remembered now….he smiled…so she hadn't left him alone after all and yeah, that knowledge felt oh-so-good. Now, if only he could remember who the hell she was! He returned the knife to its rightful place within the bag and debated on what to do. Call Sam? Wake Granma? Try and drive home? Listen to what his body was telling him and go back to bed? His head and stomach, at odds until now, agreed with that suggestion and really, was he expected to fight them both?

Within seconds, he was back in bed, snuggled under the blankets and asleep.

***000***

Maggie woke to grey daylight struggling to be visible through the heavy curtains. The gap actually revealed sunshine. She shuddered, recalling she remained in a dingy motel room of dubious reputation with a…a….a questionable criminal. Yeah, that old saying, 'everything's better in the morning', not so much. Good lord, she'd slept in her clothes. She'd_ slept_, on the_ sofa_, in this _room_, until morning!

She didn't move, she didn't think she could! Apparently she'd fallen sleep in the same position she'd awoken in and her old bones were stiff from tension and cold, the blanket still folded on the arm of the sofa. She felt like crying. No breakfast, no immediate shower – she had to go shopping first, no coffee...she sat up, feet still on the sofa and squinted at the floor – where had she left her glasses? It was carpeted and in the dull light of dawn showing through the heavy curtains, coated in what she prayed was _only_ dust. She sneezed. Sure, sure…..when she didn't know the floor was coated in dust, it hadn't affected her at all but now that she knew it, she'd be sneezing all day. What was that syndrome called? Placebo effect? Power of suggestion? Psychological disorder? No…no….no…..oh drat, she was in dire need of coffee.

Okay Maggie, you're a big girl. You survived the night. If your car remains outside and has four tires, get in it and get the hell out-of-town. She tip-toed around the suite. It was actually one large room with a kitchenette, a sofa and a chair but it made her feel better to call it a suite. She figured it was one of those rent-an-efficiency-room by the week motels. She visited the bathroom, peeked out the window, sunny and bright – woo-hoo, her car – the storm was over, nothing to impede Sam's rapid response to Jody's call, she frowned…..where the hell was Dean's over-protective brother anyway? What time was it? Shouldn't he have been here by now? Best place a call to Jody and find out! Thoughts elsewhere, glasses still misplaced, she bent over to pick up what she thought was a scrap of paper from the floor.

It moved, she shrieked and all hell broke loose.

***000***

Sam tossed his pencil and used both palms to rub his eyes. He hadn't slept more than ten minutes at a time since….well, since….well, in days. He hadn't shaved or showered, hell, he hadn't even brushed his teeth, surviving on coffee and grim determination to save his brother whether that brother thought he needed to be saved or not.

He wasn't getting anywhere, running into dead ends and road blocks every time he thought he'd made progress. He'd wanted, _insisted _on privacy and undisturbed time to concentrate so to get Dean out of the way, he'd sent his restless, unperturbed-by-a-potential life altering mark brother out of town on an errand; an errand that could have waited for a bit, Sam not ready for the ingredient in the spell but Dean had been driving him crazy!

All right, time for a break, he yawned, fingering his greasy hair. Wow, raised arm and nose agreed he really needed a shower, change of clothes and a hot meal. Huh, thinking of Dean…shouldn't he have been back by now? What day was it anyway? When had he left? Even taking back roads, it was at most, a seven or eight hour drive. Sure, Dean probably found a bar, maybe a girl, might have decided to spend the night, but hell…he should be back by now. Huh. Sam frowned, getting up and going over to the desk where he rooted among the papers and coffee cups until he found the burner phone he'd told Dean to call. Nothing. Not a missed call, not a text, not a voicemail.

"Calendar…..calendar…..don't we have a fucking calendar?" he flung papers and shoved books, threw a map. "Where….?" giving up, he decided to visit the kitchen for coffee and a look at the calendar he knew hung on the 'fridge. On his way, he passed through the library. A set of car keys flung carelessly atop one of the tables told him Cas had found his way home. "Cas?" he called. "Hey? Where you at?" he wasn't worried about waking the angel, angel's didn't sleep. Sam picked up his phone and continued to make his way to the kitchen. He set it aside while he made a mug of coffee from Dean's latest purchase – his brother sure did like modern day conveniences, the latest a Keurig – then sat down at the table with his mug and phone.

Castiel, in the garage, heard Sam calling him despite the distance and solid walls and began to climb the stairs to the ground floor. Man, walking and driving everywhere got old real quick.

Missed calls, texts, emails, messages…..all from Sheriff Mills and one voicemail from Dean's phone. He dialed that voicemail first, expecting to hear Dean's voice, thrown off-kilter when it was Jody's that greeted him.

"CAS!" spilt coffee from his over-turned mug went ignored and his chair flipped over backwards due to his rapid rise to his feet. "CASTIEL! CAS!"

"I'm here Sam."

"We gotto go!"


	3. Chapter 3

Dean bolted from the bed, headache from head injury making him lethargic and disoriented. Clouded by his dense confusion, finally free of the confining blankets and reacting to the feminine shrieks, he gained his feet, gun in hand, whirling in circles in an attempt to locate, isolate and eliminate the threat he'd yet to identify; for the moment oblivious to his stomachs displeasure.

The problem? The room didn't whirl with him. Or maybe it did, only faster and it didn't stop.

He stumbled, head taking exception to being upright and the rapid rise used to achieve its current height. Falling against the bed, he aimed at….at…what the hell was it? He truly didn't know! It hopped. It flapped. It flopped. It shrieked. It had two heads, four arms, eight hands, lacked legs and had an outstanding ability to hover above the floor. It never remained in one place, refused to stay still and Christ, but it made a lot of freaking noise. So, a ghost?

Well, when it doubt, shoot it. Though if it were a ghost, silver bullets wouldn't do shit.

Poor Maggie never had a clue _she_ was being shot at. At the first shot fired, she clapped her hands over her ears and accomplished a feat she wished she could remember – she _leapt _atop the table and proceeded to dance happy feet – as though the soles of her shoes – and oh Thank God she was wearing shoes – were touching hot coals.

"Get it! Get it OFF. Get IT OFF. GET IT OFF!" she shrieked, each word louder than the last, hands flip-flopping in amazing speed, a blur in the dim light to the man still thoroughly dazed and confused from a concussion. "EEK! ARGH! AAAHHH!" and on and on until all Dean wanted was for it to shut up. "EEIIIEEE! OHOHOHOHO!"

Another shot, then another, one went wild, a pillow exploded, the room rained feathers and…_still_ the outraged squawking continued, not even a hiccup. Wow, his aim was off; really off, like two fifths of whiskey had been consumed, off.

"KILL IT! Did you KILL it? Did you? _DID YOU_?"

Dean blinked and stared. Stared and blinked. Rubbed his eyes and stared. Stared and shook his head. No, it was still there and he still saw it – whatever the hell it was. It…..it…..what the fuck was it? A bird? It was a bloody bird? Did birds shed its feathers? What was that called? Molting? Damn, that was one fucking big bird!

His eyes narrowed, no…no….wait….wait for it, wait for it…..waiting, still waiting…..oh, right. Not a bird, not a ghost; his little ole grey-haired Granma. And she was standing on the table, stomping her feet and hopping and shrieking…..hands waving, elbows flapping…he winced, rubbing his brow, yeah….shrieking _and _screaming.

She really needed to stop. Before the table collapsed. Or he did.

"Oh My!" she squawked, elbows doing their best to help her take flight. Hell, she just might accomplish it – maybe she already had – proof being her standing atop a table, no chair positioned to have given her aide. "Oh My, Oh My, Oh My!" she swatted at feathers floating in the air, plucking one from her hair and blowing at one that landed on her nose. "Oh My!"

Dean stood staring at her…..eyes wide. Finally, after what felt like an hour but was only seconds, out of breath and light-headed, the room now still, she fell silent and stood still, hands clasped over her heaving chest. She didn't know who was breathing heavier, her or him. Her, for her breath had turned tail and taken flight and she was panting and if she didn't sit down, she was going to fall down and at her age, falling off a table would surely break a hip. And it would be all _his _fault!

"What the fuck…" Dean spit, "Are you doing dancing on the table?"

She'd been waiting for his assistance. The offer of a hand to help her down, a chair pulled out upon which she could sit and see about finding which way her breath had gone. Perhaps be given a paper bag or a wet cloth, her hand held and patted with compassion…whoa, wait a minute, hold up…what did he just say?

"Dan…danc…..WHAT?!" she sputtered, startled right out of her scare. Outrage replaced hysteria, and just like that, all thoughts of fainting vanished. Perhaps they'd chased after her breath. "Why you….you…..I MOST CERTAINLY AM NOT DANCING ON THE TABLE!" she roared.

And still he stared. "Get down." he ordered, expecting instant obedience. Oh, but he didn't feel good. Not at all.

"Seriously, do you _hear _any music?" she bellowed indignantly, still not past being accused of _dancing_. On after thought, maybe – just maybe – with that head injury, he did.

"Get. Down." he hissed. How would she like to hang upside down over his shoulder? He just bet she'd try to kick him with those little feet too. Wasn't going to happen, he couldn't lift his arm over his head, let alone pluck a petite Granma off a table. Fuck, he really needed peace and quiet. He needed to lie down and pass out.

"I. Will. Not." she replied stoutly. "There are bugs crawling in the carpet!" her shrill voice made him wince and pale. "BUGS! Bugs I tell you! Ooooh…..Oh My. Oh My…..bugs….." she groaned, fanning her face ineffectually with her hand. "I touched it! I picked it up! And it was alive! It wiggled and waggled _all_ its legs." she moaned. " Oooohhh, I'm going to faint." more moaning.

"Don't you dare." Dean threatened. We both can't, he added silently. "Suck it up Granma."

"It had six legs!" maybe more, she shuddered. Even without her glasses, and despite the dim light, she knew…..she _knew_!

"A bug?" he echoed. "_A bug_? A fucking bug?" Dean exclaimed incredulously. "You weren't being attacked? Nothing was trying to kill you?" he moved about the room, doing what she didn't know. "All this…." his gun-holding hand waved to encompass the room. "This…over a fucking cockroach? I could see all this hellaboo over a rat but a_ bug_?"

"_IT HAD ANTENNAS_!" she screeched.

Ow, he winced, feeling pin-pricks across his forehead. "Lady, I don't know who you are or what the fuck you're doing in my motel room, but….." crap, he needed to sit down.

"If it doesn't have two or four legs, fur or feathers, it has no reason to live." she insisted, stomping a foot for emphasis. Okay, sure, perhaps she had over-reacted just a tad, but her epic freak-out had been the result of stress and discomfit over a situation that wasn't her fault and she'd _slept_ in a room with _bugs_!

"Get down." his tone was threatening and she bristled at being ordered around. "Before you break a bone. Ain't they, like, brittle at your age?"

No, not threatening, authoritative. "Now, see here." she began indignantly, finger wagging. "I haven't the slightest clue why Jody is so fond of you, but I have neither attachment nor affection…what the blazes are you doing?" she was stunned to realize what he was doing was packing. "Packing, you're packing? Why are you packing? You can't pack! Where do you think you're going? You can't leave here!"

He grunted.

Her mouth opened. It closed. Opened, closed. Her nostrils flared. She huffed, she puffed, she inhaled and blew her breath out so hard she disturbed a feather. She swatted as it floated by and she argued with herself mentally: No. No Margaret Ruth Mills. You are not crazy. Leaving is exactly what you are going to do. It's what you wanted to do since last night, so why are you arguing? If he wants to leave, let him leave. Point him in the direction of his car and wave good-bye. Why haven't you already left? You are going to turn tail and flee. You are going to get in your car, drive north, delete Jody's number, curse her soundly and not speak to her for a good two weeks! You are…...oh damn, he just threw up in the sink.

"Rinse your mouth out." she mothered automatically.

"Five minutes." Dean had three duffels sitting on the bed. "All we got." he used his shirt sleeve to wipe his mouth by hunching a shoulder, and still - she glared - he held the gun.

"We?" she repeated stupidly. "We?" What do you mean, we?" she paused, emotions making her knees weak and her heart flutter. Why, oh why, did he have to have green eyes? "For what?! What are you doing? You can't…oh, now young man, you listen to me!" oh yeah, maternal instinct to protect and nourish kicked ass! "There is nothing you can possibly say that will convince me you leaving the comfort….." she choked on the word. "Comfort of this motel room is…."

"Police are probably on their way." Dean said wearily. "All your screaming." his peripheral vision was non-existent.

Except that. That would do it. Bugs with or without six or more legs completely forgotten, she sat down on the table, scootched to the end, dropped her feet over and gingerly lowered herself to the floor. He was right; her bones weren't of an age to withstand a leap the distance to the floor.

"Screaming? My screaming? What about firing that revolver?!" she huffed. "If anything is going to bring the police, its shots from that revolver."

"Revolver? Re…vol…? What? Granny, this is not a revolver."

"Is it not a gun?"

"Well, yeah, but…"

"Then it is a revolver." she sniffed. "Pistol, revolver…..there's no difference."

"There's a big difference!" Dean objected then winced. "I can't do this." he put the back of his gun-holding hand to his forehead. "I don't feel so good." down, going down. Yup, no way to stop it….going down.

"Of course you don't." her lips thinned in disapproval. "You aren't obeying doctors' orders and just look what happens."

"Who…what? Who the hell are you anyway?" he was sitting on the floor, back against the bed, head resting on the mattress with his eyes closed. Pain spiked across the back of his head, from one ear to the other. "Shit."

"Get. Off. That. Disgusting. Floor." she shot back.

He rolled his head, put both palms to the floor, raised his knees and dug in with his heals but didn't push up. Hell, he didn't even move! Dear God, did she have to do everything!? Five minutes, huh?

Jaw set in determination, she rushed about the room, opening drawers and cupboards and closets, throwing everything and anything that wasn't tied down or plugged-in into the duffel bags willy-nilly; she didn't fold, she didn't sort, she didn't place neatly. She had the bathroom cleared in thirty seconds. She tossed her purse on the bed next to the duffels, parked her over-night bag next to the bed, did one last visual survey of the room, grabbed the handles of the first duffel and heaved: It didn't budge. She fell forward. Face first. Across the bed. On her belly. Atop the duffel. Feet kicking, trying to maneuver her into gaining some stability, she started grousing.

"OF. ALL. THE!" she tugged and pulled and pushed and heaved-hoed with a series of grunts that finally aroused Dean, but all she managed to do was drag the bag to the floor. It landed with a loud thud that had Dean swallowing bile with a groan. "IN ALL MY YEARS! What the hell do you have in there? A body? Good Lord." she recalled seeing similar bags in her daughter-in-laws garage when the brothers had dropped in unexpectedly and Sam had sent her on an errand to retrieve something from one of them; they'd been full of assorted weapons. "Seriously, I'm too old for this!" she muttered. "Mom, I need a favor, she says. Just for a few hours, she says. Just need you to keep an eye on him, she says. He won't be any trouble, she says. HAS SHE NOT MET YOU?"

Dean simply sat and watched her. He still had no idea who she was, why she was with him, how she'd gotten there or what she was doing. He fought the urge to lie down, feeling nauseated and weak. His head….god, did his head hurt. The room zoomed in and out of focus, Granma was blurry and boy, he didn't feel good, but despite the pain and dizziness and disorientation and confusion, he couldn't help but grin at the spectacle playing out in front on him.

And still, she blathered on.

"...disgusting insects in the carpet, shooting pillows, rude desk clerks and maids who don't speak a known language...this, this...this most decrepit, sorry excuse for a motel. Have you _seen_ the bathroom? That bathtub hasn't had sponge or cleanser applied since installation." oh-oh. Was that sirens she heard? Or was it her imagination? Oh dear. Not good, not good. Leaving the duffel-bearing-a-body on the floor by bed, she reached for the other two. She had to carry them one at a time but she was able to carry them and took them out to her car. Yay! Her car was still there. And it had all four tires with all windows intact. By the time she carried and left both bags on the pavement next to her car and returned for the mother-load, she was panting, out of breath and sweating. Whew!

"What are you doing?" Dean asked. "Where….?"

"What am I doing?" she repeated. "What does it look like I'm doing? You packed, we're leaving." she announced. "Why aren't you dressed? What have you been doing while I've been breaking my back loading the car?" she clapped her hands. "Move! Move young man! Move, I say. Up and at them. I hear sirens." she urged, toeing his hip with her shoe. "We've got to go!"

"You packed them all."

"Packed all what?" she deflated. "Oh." his clothes, she'd packed all his clothes. She gnawed on a knuckle then shrugged it off. "Wrap up in a blanket. I'm driving."

"Think….I'll just stay here." he breathed faintly. "Don't really…..feel like going anywhere." and where was it he'd be going anyway? He didn't know…..didn't care….not when he could stay right here. Pull a blanket off the bed, maybe snag a pillow…floor was good….he'd spent many a night in worse accommodations. Aw, hell…was she still blathering on? Did she never shut up? And what the hell was she doing now?

She had hold of his ear and was encouraging him to shake it off and get to his feet. Dean sighed, conceded and obeyed. He didn't question her and that right there would have alerted Sam to how badly he felt but Maggie didn't know any better. He gained his feet, surveyed the room and though shaky, he lifted and shouldered the bag.

Maggie gaped, she couldn't lift it and he hefted it with one hand and slung it over one shoulder! _And where the hell did he keep putting that gun!_?

She shook it off. "Good." she nodded. "Let's go." all was good. They were ready to leave and no one had come to investigate either her screaming or the gun shots. "Come on." she clapped her hands briskly, purse dangling from one wrist. "Move it, move it, move it!" she chanted, stepping right, left, right, one way then the other, herding him the way she wanted him to go. Good Lord, but he staggered about the room, tripping over his own feet, kicking furniture, hand-holding tables and counters! It was like following behind a toddler ready to catch him should he fall or remove from his grasp whenever he grabbed something he shouldn't have.

Finally, the door! She grabbed the handle of her overnight bag on wheels, allowed him to grab his keys, though she had no intention of allowing him to drive and swung the door open. Bright sunshine greeted them and Dean hit the pavement face-first, just slumped to the ground like a child-sized floppy stuffed toy who'd been let go and, having lost his support, couldn't remain standing.

Maggie's purse went flying. "Bugger Me!" she exclaimed, palm smacking her forehead. "Light!" purse and overnight bag forgotten, she nimbly jumped – nimble for a woman her age having suffered a recent fright – over the heap of black cotton rolling about on the concrete – at least he was conscious – and scurried to her car, only one thought on her mind.

Sunglasses. She needed sunglasses. Damn sun. Had to come out now, couldn't still be grey and overcast and raining. Oh no, bright blue skies and blinding sun. Damn weather. Now, where were those elusive sunglasses? The ones she'd kept after her cataract surgery. Where, oh where…..oh blast, they had to be somewhere! But no: not in the glove box, nor the center console, nor the net on the back of the either front seat, nor in any of the cup holders, or any of the door compartments. Not on the floor, not under a seat, not on the back windshield or on the backseat. For the love of all she held dear, HER CAR WAS NOT THAT BIG, it was a mid-sized compact four-door sedan.

Oh….oh-oh…oh the trunk! Her car had a trunk!

Now frantic, head and shoulders submerged, ass to the world for all to see, she tore apart her trunk. She tossed, she threw, she sent items airborne over her shoulder; fling, flang, flung: umbrellas, packets of wet-wipes and bags for dog poop, a box of tissues…..gloves, a scarf, a hat, an old coat, a pair of thermal socks, a ratty blanket. She shoved first one way then the other; the collapsible shovel, the unopened bag of cat litter, a bucket, jumper cables, snow brush, bottle of washer fluid, ice scraper, flashlight, spotlight, reusable grocery bags…hey, she paused, that missing winter rubber boot she'd been looking for…after all, she lived in South Dakota….and over her shoulder to the pavement it went, joining the pile of discarded trunk items where her ankles were taking a beating, for she was on tiptoes. Good God, she had a lot of crap…..but no sun glasses. Damn, damn, dammit…..double damn!

What was that noise? What was going on? What had he done now? Chatter? Voices? People? The _police?_

"HEY!" she bellowed, charging from the car like a steam engine puffing smoke, brandishing an umbrella. "YOU THERE! What do YOU think YOU'RE doing?! GET AWAY from him!" unbeknownst to her, a crowd – okay, four people – had gathered around Dean and she pushed between two gawkers. "Shoo…shoo…the lot you of, be gone. What are you looking at? Shoo, I say." she waved and waggled with her hand. "Break it up, nothing to see here….move along." she clucked.

Dean remained limp, sprawled on the sidewalk with his duffel.

She closed her eyes and prayed. Prayed for patience. Prayed for the ability to keep her temper. Prayed to be granted the strength required to get him off the ground and into the car. Prayed for the duffel to miraculously be light enough she could carry it; unloading it would take too much time and she wanted to be gone from this hell on earth.

"Yo Gamma', y'all need some help a-gettin' him inna yar ca-ah?" a bedraggled, twitching, tattooed youth with more piercing than she, asked. He was staring down at Dean and stated the obvious. "Hey, he ain't got no clothes on."

Harrumph! No shit.

She opened one eye. Accept help from that disease-infested, drug-addicted low-life with no possible chance for a future? HA! That stick-thin disappointment-to-his-mother was likely to be blown over by a brisk breeze! She geared up to let loose just what she thought of the inhabitants of the most disgusting motel it had ever been her misfortune to set foot in…..oh wait….nooooooooooooo, it couldn't be, could it? No, but…could it be? The answer to her prayer? Oh, the good Lord had a wicked sense of humor, indeed he did. Yes, indeed.

"Why yes, if you would be so kind. I'm afraid my grandson simply can't hold his liquor these days." she said sweetly. "Such a nice young gentlemen to offer your assistance. I appreciate it. Oh, I say, do be careful of his head. I'm afraid I was a tad short of patience last night. Boxed his ears but good, I did."

It took the combined efforts of three men to get Dean on his feet and even then she suspected it was because he aided them. They half dragged/half carried him to her car where he opened the passenger side front door – ah-ha, so he was aware of what was going on – and got in the car. She motioned to the bag but stick-thin dude couldn't lift the duffel either so he dragged it over to the car where one of the other men tossed it in the trunk along with the other two she'd carried out earlier. She thanked the, erhm, motley crew for helping her, closed the trunk, retrieved her purse and overnight bag, tossed them onto the backseat, climbed in behind the wheel, inserted the key in the ignition, turned the engine over, looked to her right and shrieked!

"AAWWKK!"

He winced, raising a hand to press his palm against his forehead. She didn't care.

"Where. Did. You. Get. Those." she seethed through clenched teeth, for there, perched on the nose of the man slumped in the seat with his head resting against the window, were her sunglasses.

He fluttered a finger from his head, and pointed to the compartment above the rearview mirror, the compartment made specifically for sunglasses. Grinding her dentures in abuse her dentist would be sure to reprimand her for, she threw a blanket over him, not caring that it covered his head, jerked the car into drive and peeled out, leaving rubber on the pavement.

***000***

"Where are we going?" Castiel asked, waiting patiently for Sam to stop pacing and give him his attention.

"To get Dean." Sam growled, cell phone to his ear as he paced. "Dammit Jody, come on!"

"Shall I drive?"

"No."

"My car is parked right outside." Cas explained patiently. "And you are exhausted. When was the last time you got any sleep?"

"I don't need sleep." he gripped the phone and stopped himself from flinging it. "Why are you here?"

"You are angry at your phone?"

"Shut up." Sam rooted among papers and books spread out on the table – the kitchen table. Huh, what were those out for? From when? Didn't matter. Not finding what he was looking for, he swiped them to the floor with an angry shove. When he got a hold of the Sheriff, he was going to wring her neck. What the hell kind of message was: 'Hey Sam, Jody here. Had to pick Dean up from county jail and ended up taking him to the ER. Concussion. Give me a call. He's okay, but maybe you should come get him.'

"Where's Dean?"

"Parker, South Dakota."

"What is he doing in South Dakota? Visiting Bobby's place?"

If only, Sam sighed, rubbing his eyes. He didn't doubt Dean had swung by the place, but Jody had said she'd retrieved him from a county jail, which meant, not hers. No, the dumb ass had gone out to some bar or home with some girl and ended up; hurt, in jail, in the hospital and…..god knows where he ended up because Sam didn't know. Jody hadn't said anything else nor had she called back.

"I sent him there for an ingredient I needed for a…..."

"There was no store closer that sold this ingredient?"

"Yes, Cas, there was." Sam snapped irritably. "But he was driving me crazy and a day apart was what I wanted. Besides, he likes to go to Sioux Falls. Bobby's house burned, but the salvage yard is still there…it's ours…..so…"

Cas nodded. He didn't understand, but he nodded in agreement anyway. "Let's go."

Sam went to his room, packed a bag – he might well be gone for a few days – and returned to the kitchen where he made a sandwich and filled a thermos with coffee. Cas was nowhere to be seen, but Sam knew he'd be waiting outside in his car. Grabbing his wallet and both cell phones, he headed outside to meet Cas.

"Move over." Sam ordered. "I'm driving."

"You are in no condition to drive Sam." Cas said reasonably. "Eat your sandwich and drink some coffee and after you rest a bit, if you still insist, you can take the wheel."

"Cas…."

"It's a 303 mile drive that takes five hours and eighteen minutes, Sam." Cas said. Sam rolled his eyes, of course Cas would know the distance in both time and mileage. "So get in and tell me what the phone message said."

Sam obeyed and Cas pulled out. He didn't ask for directions, apparently angels didn't need MapQuest and within minutes, they were driving north on interstate 281. Three miles later, Sam was gritting his teeth, clenching his fists and struggling not to throttle the driver who obeyed every driving law to a precise T; the speed limit, safe following distance, lane changing, not passing with a blind spot, merging, yielding….

Sam sought a distraction so while he ate, he read the texts, then the emails from Jody. Concussion. Checked out of the hospital despite doctor's recommendation he remain overnight for observation. Unwise to leave him alone. He required supervision and care. No traumatic brain injury, but two head injuries in less than a week. Greatest risk was blood clots. Under no circumstances was he medically cleared to fly – Sam snorted, no worries there – for flying caused dehydration and severe dehydration could negatively aid in the deterioration of memory and cause fatigue. Uh….what?

"Sam?"

"Huh? What Cas?" he was listening to Jody's voicemails from her phone. "Can you drive a little faster?"

"I am driving the posted speed limit."

"Yeah, I know."

"Is Dean ok?"

"I'll know when I see him."


	4. Chapter 4

A stroke, she definitely had had a stroke. There was simply was no other possible explanation for why she felt the way she did.

Maggie was sprawled in a comfortable recliner, foot rest up, feet bare, cold cloth on her forehead, the file Jody had left from the ER on her lap. All she could do was moan. Swallow. Moan. Press the cloth more firmly against her forehead, and moan. Wallowing, she was wallowing, and dammit, she was allowed to; allowed to drown in self-pity, she _dared _anyone to tell her to swim out of it. She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Finally, after all these years, after five sons and a husband, she'd been defeated by a complete stranger – mostly likely a criminal – who twisted her sideways. It was those damnable green eyes. Sniff. She would not cry. She would not shed a tear. She would not sob. Her fingers tapped the file, tissue crumbled in her palm. She really should have read it before going to bed last night. Not that she'd planned on falling asleep on the sofa in _that_ motel room, but still…

She. Was. The. Worst. Mother. Ever.

'Cause, Oh Dear God, she'd probably gone and damaged the poor boy for life. She sniffed. She should never have moved him. Or let him out of bed. Or shoot a gun. Or pack. Or pass out. Or go outside. Or ride for nearly an hour in the car, with the bright sunshine beating on him through the window until she found a hotel acceptable to her standards. Not that – well, accept driving for an hour – she could have prevented any of it. She didn't think even alcohol would be strong enough to save her from drowning in the deep depths of her self-pity. Okay, no, he wasn't her son, she hadn't raised him, she didn't even know him but still, she felt responsible for him, he'd been placed in her care, Jody trusted her with the life of this man and she'd gone and done did him damage…..oooohhh, she moaned, she was losing her ability to speak like an educated adult.

Five sons. She'd raised five – count 'em, _five! _– sons, married a man who worked manual labor with his hands and his back amidst dangerously machinery. She had numerous grandchildren, had suffered the pain and guilt and unbearable grief over burying both a son and a grandson and never, not once, had she _ever_ been reduced to…to….to…_this!_

Years of sprains and bruises and broken bones and stitches and torn or strained muscles from sports injuries, household mishaps, falls from bikes, dirt bikes and skate boards or trees and monkey bars and playground swing sets and once a roof top, resulting in so many trips to the ER – for in that day if your child had a bump or a bruise, you weren't immediately accused of child abuse – that she called the ER doctor and nurses by first name. Why, once her eldest had shot her middle son in the head with a bb gun! And oh, all the rough and tumble games that had gotten out of hand; a child nearly losing an eye to a stray rubber band, another an ear to an ill-advised if desperate hold in a wrestling match on her living room floor, another a thumb and finger to an unsupervised attempt to fix a lawn mower, the teen-ager who had lost four front teeth to his brother's fist…that dental bill had required a loan and monthly payments to an oral surgeon.

And there'd been measles and mumps and chicken pox, for when her children had been kids, immunizations for some childhood illnesses had not been available; the child with asthma, the child allergic to everything from milk and peanuts to soap and dust to grass and any and all pet hair, the child who caught a cold if a neighbor sneezed. There'd been mono and the flu and bronchitis and upper repository and sinus infections. Endless nights spent nursing a child through a stomach ache or fever or ear ache.

The fear every time a child was late, no peace of mind from cell phones or GPS tracking; that phone call from the state police informing you your child had been in a car accident; the call from the local Sheriff asking you to pick your son up from jail for being involved in mild mischief; those humiliating talks about sex and alcohol and drugs and trusting your child to do the right thing, even when you weren't there.

The arguments and disagreements with her spouse over discipline and punishment, raises in allowance, permission to seek a job, attend a school trip or accompany a girlfriend's family on a vacation. Finding money for cars and paying for insurance and funding college; footing the loan for weddings and down payments on houses and being a free babysitter, accepting that not all daughters-in-law were as lovable as Jody. The stomach hurting, gut wrenching feeling of heartache and fear and doubt and uncertainty that came with loving a family, and not once – _not once_ – had she ever been reduced to the shrieking, hysterical, always-on-the-verge of fainting, out-of-her-element, bat-shit crazy, quivering mass of nerves she currently was.

No, that was all attributed to one man. One man with a concussion who, while in her care, had done everything the doctor had strongly advised against. Who knew dehydration was detrimental to a person suffering from a concussion?_ No, really, who knew that?_ Okay, yeah, sure….the symptoms were similar and she supposed if one were dizzy and weak or disoriented and confused from being dehydrated, it_ could _make the effects of a concussion worse….but still….she moaned, was her eye twitching? Her eye was definitely twitching.

Drat that Jody Mills!

Where was she? Oh right, having a stroke: numbness of face, check; weakness in her arms, check; severe headache, check; trouble walking, check; blurry vision, check. (the fact all these symptoms could be explained by recent events escaped her rational thought: grinding her teeth, supporting his weight walking him up to the room at the Best Inn & Suites, stress/clenched jaw, _his weight_, exhaustion, doing too much without wearing her glasses, dragging those duffel bags, standing on tiptoe while ransacking her trunk, sleeping on a hard sofa holding herself stiff as a board.)

Ooooohh. She rapidly fanned herself with the file then threw it in a snit-fit. Fine. Fine. FINE! No more. No more pussy-footing around with epic freak-outs. She would not be defeated. If she had to, she could do anything, she was strong, she was invincible, she was WOMAN, hear her roar or whatever the hell Helen Reddy sang way back when. She tossed the cloth aside, kicked the foot rest down, wiggled her bone-weary self from the depths of the chair and pushed to her feet. She had shit to do.

***000***

You're okay, you're alright, and everything's going to be ok. Dean didn't move, he was sprawled on his stomach, head flat on the mattress and as long as he kept that silent chant going through his mind, he didn't panic. No need to panic, no need to panic, don't panic, don't panic, you're okay, you're alright…and on and on. Time passed and his mind wandered.

Where was he? Was he alone? How had he gotten there?

"…you're okay, you're alright….everything's going to be ok." echoed in his ears. "You're not alone, you're with me in my hotel room...who's panicking? There's no need to panic."

Was he hearing things? He was! His chant had manifested outside his mind and his voice! – What was wrong with his voice? It'd changed! When had that happened? And why? What was wrong with him? Why were his questions being answered when he wasn't speaking them out loud? SAM! FIX THIS!

"Sssh…..shush…..ssshh." soothed the voice. "Easy….easy does it. That's it, take it easy."

Who….? What…? Aw hell, did he care? Not really. And don't ask him why, because he didn't know. He didn't know anything. The room could catch fire and burn down around him and he wouldn't know what was happening. Wait…..there was a fire? Where? He should help. He was good with an axe. Whoa….he needed an axe? Was there firewood to chop? He heard buzzing, a chainsaw? Yeah, he'd need a shovel….uh, why? Did he need to dig? Right, a grave….always a grave….dig, chop, salt, burn. Shovel, axe, fire…FIRE?! He needed….needed….he needed…what did he need? Where was he? Motel? Right, a motel…..so, there'd be a…a….what were they called? They were red and shot foam and….

"Rest." the same soft voice murmured. "You're okay, just rest. Some water? You need to drink."

Water! Water put out fires! There was a fire? Oh shit, WAS HE _ON_ FIRE?!

"Hot? You're hot? You can't possibly be hot. How can you be hot? You're not hot!" hands cupped his cheek, lifted his head, felt his forehead, cupped his other cheek. The bed dipped slightly as the weight next to his hip wiggled and shifted. A hand on his shoulder nudged him until he turned ever-so-slowly, first to his side, then to his back. He was reluctant to open his eyes though he didn't know why. No one was asking him to, so he didn't. His nose twitched, nostrils flaring as his over-worked, abused brain tried to place the scent. "Come on, drink some water."

Drink? Drink the water? Drink it, when he was on fire? how crazy was she? He needed to throw it. Throw it on the fire, put himself out…where was that foam spraying red thing? And what was the damn scent? Not ash…oh Ash, RIP buddy….yeah, fire had gotten Ash but it wasn't going to get him…Nuh-uh…..where the hell was that water?

"Hey, here now. None of that." his flailing hands were caught and held, thumbs chafed each wrist. "Stop that….what are you doing? Let me hold the cup…I said let me. I said….oh now hey….that's enough…..let me hold it for you…..that's right, that's a boy…..tastes good, huh?"

"Mmmm." he groaned, stirring restlessly, muttering nonsense, becoming more aggressive in his attempts to….to….to what? Sit up? Get away? Fight a fire? Run?

"Ssshh." something cold and wet was laid across his forehead. The elusive scent was stronger…..not ash, not fire…. "You're okay…there's no fire. You need to get away from what? We're fine here, there's no need to run."

Humming, not buzzing, humming. Something was humming. What hummed? Mom's, machines, remote control toy airplanes, bees, birds….birds? Wait…..hadn't there been a huge-ass squealing, squawking chicken dancing on his table? He'd shot that son-of-a-bitch, he'd had to, to shut it the fuck up.

The humming stopped, replaced with a brisk voice. Feminine, he was sure of it, but not the husky seductive tones he was used to hearing in bed. "Here, drink some more water….that's it…yup, good, good." his lips were patted dry, his chin wiped clean. "Come on, little bit more. Enough? Okay? Close your eyes….close 'em, come on."

What? Did she think he was six?

"Close your eyes…let sleep come…..close them." she coaxed. "Stop fighting it and go to sleep."

His eyes were open? Really? For real? He blinked. Scrunched his nose and blinked. Made kissable lips and blinked. Nope, nothing.

"…..your headache will ease." she went on. "The sun was so bright, my bad, but….."

Right, he had a head. And it hurt. Odd, he didn't get headaches, Sammy did, unless….Oh-oh, was he hurt in the head?

"…the room's as dark as I can make it….."

Aah, that's why he couldn't see.

"….and you feel weak and dizzy but….."

Whoa, just whoa. Hold it the fuck up. Weak and dizzy? _From a headache?_

"….. you aren't exhibiting any of the symptoms the doctor warned would identify a brain injury…"

_Brain injury? _Who had a brain injury?

"…..grade 4 concussion…"

Concussion? Pfft, his headache was from the sunshine. He knew, 'cause she'd just said so.

"….I don't see any evidence of any bleeds or blood clots…"

He was bleeding? Shit! From where? How bad? He needed a needle. Who had a needle?

"…..no gag reflex and you're not choking on the water. Eyes are even…."

Of course they were even, he had two! What the hell else were they supposed to be?

"…..just keep you drinking…."

Yeah! Yeah, he was on board with that. Bring him that bottle from right over….over…there.

"….can't let you dehydrate. Never in my life…..a doctor, so obsessed with dehydration….."

Fire hydrant! Bingo! That's what put out fires. Now, what wall…..? Uh…..no….no….that wasn't right.

"…...know who you are? What is this? Can you tell me what I'm holding?"

Of course he knew who he was, what he didn't know was who the fuck she was. Or why she wasn't speaking in complete sentences.

"I see. Too soon." she patted his scruffy cheek and he turned towards the caress, allowing the thumb to rub circles along his jaw. "You've had a rough morning. You just need some rest."

Aah….yeah, you old crone, trying to do just that but you just keep babbling on. Even if I only hear, like every third word.

"You comfy?" the blankets were tugged and tucked, pulled to his shoulders. "Here, let me fluff this one pillow…you good? You need anything?"

No! No, he wasn't good…..! Nothing was good. Nothing was the way it was supposed to be. He didn't know anything!

"That's it…you go to sleep. Nothing to worry about it." the caress, the soft words, the gentle touch, the loose hold on his jaw, the comforting humming, the weight of a body next to him on the bed, was all too much, it lulled him to sleep and he succumbed without a fight. His last thought was Sam. He should do something about Sam, but he didn't know what or why. Not like Sam would miss him or notice he was missing. Nope, not dear ole Sammy. Not these days.

Satisfied Dean slept a normal sleep, and showed no signs of being worse; Maggie took herself off for a shower. She was determined to shower, change her clothes and go find something to eat. Even though it meant leaving him alone for an hour, she intended to go grocery shopping then have a hot meal. Then she would nap, for she was exhausted. Apparently her snooze on that decrepit, moth-eaten sofa had afforded her little rest. Dear Lord, had it only been…some twelve, thirteen hours since arriving at that…..she shuddered at the memory…..motel room and taking on the responsibility of his care?

***000***

The first time Dean awoke, he was alone, in the dark and knew nothing more than his head was being beat on by several different drummers. Dammit, his skull was not a drum.

The second time he awoke, he managed to sit up in bed, conclude he was alone in his motel room and there was no reason to get up, go anywhere or do anything, so he didn't. He lay back down and passed out.

The third time he awoke, he managed to gain his feet and seek out the source that was disturbing his peace. The culprit? Granma was snoring…..he was no longer alone. He drank some water from a plastic tumbler sitting on the table next to his bed and crawled under the blankets, out before his head hit the pillow.

The fourth time he awoke…..or maybe the sixth, hell, he didn't know. He didn't even know how much time had passed nor did he recall in any order, the previous times he'd awoken…he decided it was time to take control of whatever situation he was in.

"Sam?" he licked dry lips. No answer, no movement, just silence. Functioning in a clouded daze, he eased free of the blankets and got to his feet. He wasn't exactly dizzy, could keep his balance, and though everything was blurry, was able to discern objects that identified his familiarity with a motel room so he made his way to the bathroom.

Deja vu?

The lights over the sink were dim, shadows danced and writhed and he either had to keep his eyes closed with a hand against the wall or sit down to pee. Yup, he'd definitely done this before and recently. Least, he thought he had. After splashing cold water on his face, he shuffled out the door, turned to his left and stopped abruptly, unease skittering across his shoulders and down his back. The kitchenette, with a mini 'fridge and lopsided table should be to his left; not a bed. And to his right should be the bed he'd just vacated and behind that, a window, not…..what the fuck was that to the right? It was…he squinted. Nope, couldn't make it out He stepped closer. It was…it was…it was a wall! A wall? What the hell? No wall should be there, or anywhere!

He cautiously, without abrupt movement or noise, backed-stepped in retreat to the bed, no green duffel of weapons. He swallowed hard, flush with panic…..no salt, no knife, no machete, no shotgun. Frantic, he flung pillows and blankets, tore the sheets from the mattress….whew….his .45. The familiar weight and feel of the gun in his hand was comforting and he sat at the foot of the bed and waited for his breath to catch him.

Okay, a motel room, but most definitely not his own; this was an actual suite several grades above his usual habitat. There was a floor to ceiling wall that extended halfway across the room before ending at an open doorway. On the opposite side of that wall, after poking his head around the door to see, was a fold-out sofa upon which slept Granma, a couple of armchairs, a TV and a desk for a computer. He could see a kitchen with a stove, a refrigerator and a counter with a microwave and coffee pot. Oh yeah, this room – suite – definitely rated at least two stars!

He frowned, rubbing his forehead as he retreated and sat back down on the bed. He couldn't think or remember or sort out recent events. Dammit, not now! That meant, he was either sick or had been hurt. He let the gun rest on his thigh and absently rubbed the mark on his arm. Great, just great. Not only was he vulnerable to attack, he was also vulnerable to emotions and past regrets he could neither conquer nor control. He was alone, on his own, again – as always. Sam was…..was…..well, Sam was Sam.

Moving carefully, gun in hand, with an ease born from years of experience, he quietly explored. Every light was draped with a towel or shirt, the curtains drawn tight, the phone didn't work, there was no clock, his cell wasn't on the table or dresser, his clothes weren't in the closet nor was duffel that contained them on the floor. So, in the car? He stopped with a frown, trying to concentrate. Think Dean, think dammit. The car…..where was his car? Why would he have left his duffels in the car? Gun in hand, he approached the window, the curtains were long enough to hide a body, and he reached out to whip them back, ready to shoot at whoever or whatever might be discovered.

No body fell forth, no person or thing laid-in-wait behind it to do him harm. No, oh no, just sunshine; the evil, vindictive sunshine. Pain shot through his skull and drove him to his knees. He dropped both the gun and the curtain with a wail as he doubled forward, arms covering his head in a desperate attempt to both stop the pain and block the source causing it.

***000***

"Cas…if you don't floor it, I'm going to banish you to the depths of the Mariana Trench…." Sam began, but Cas remained clueless. That means, Go faster."

"You can certainly angel-banish me, but you cannot control to where I am sent." Castiel replied. "And first, I must pull over. Should you banish me while I am driving, the car will go out of control and you're chances of surviving an automobile accident at this high-rate of speed…."

"High-rate? Cas, you're doing 50!"

"Yes." Castiel agreed, nodding. "That is the posted speed limit."

"Cas, drive faster."

Castiel, reluctant to remove his eyes from the road, spared Sam the briefest glance. The set jaw, thinned lips, hard eyes and bared teeth convinced Cas it would be wiser to increase his speed rather than obey the speed limit. "We'll get there Sam." Castiel assured the worried brother riding shotgun. "He'll be fine."

"When I said driver faster, I didn't mean 55." Sam ground out. "Faster or let me drive."

"How fast would you suggest I go?" Castiel asked, perplexed.

"Ninety's good." Sam seethed, wondering if the old car could achieve the higher speed and if it could, hoped it didn't conk out maintaining it. Dean had the golden touch with cars, was the mechanic….Sam swallowed, reaching deep to reel in his emotions. "Cas….." his cell buzzed and he answered. "Sheriff."

"Hey ya, Sam." Jody greeted warmly. "Got your voicemail, first chance I had to call you back. Guess you finally got all my messages then?"

"Where….?"

"I have police duty, you know." she continued, ignoring his attempts to interrupt. "You must be involved in something deep. Thought I'd hear back from you last night. I started calling yesterday."

Sam mutely accepted the gentle reprimand. It was due and he couldn't object to it or argue against it but he was only going to allow so much. Jody didn't push, she'd said her piece and moved on, this time allowing the interruption.

"Where are you?" Sam asked.

"Me? I'm in Sioux Falls, I had to go back to work."

"Dean's with you? I thought…didn't you say the doctor recommended he not travel?"

"Dean's in Parker." she answered calmly, expecting and receiving the verbal blow-up. "Sam…Sam, hey, calm down." she waited until there was only heaving breathing on the other end of the phone then continued. "I didn't leave him in the hospital, he's not in jail, I didn't allow some bar-bimbo to take him home, no hopped-up nurse is taking care of him and no, he's not dumped in some crime-ridden alley."

"Then where is he Jody?"

She paused, stunned by the tone of voice directed at her. If she didn't know better, if she weren't a good distance away, she might actually feel threatened. "Honestly, I expected you last night." she began carefully. "I assumed…."

"You're saying it's my fault he's alone somewhere?"

She struggled not to take offense and become defensive. Sam was worried, it was expected. In their line of work, no injury, however slight could be ignored; injured or ill, left alone, they were vulnerable to attack.

"Sam….listen to me. He's not alone, I wouldn't do that. I would never just leave him when he was hurt."

"Then who…."

"He's with Maggie."

"Who?"

"My mother-in-law. Remember? You met her at my house when…."

"Your…? The little old lady who was scared to death of him?" Sam shouted. "A mere human who has no idea of the dangers..."

"Hey now, not stupid Sam. I left that motel room warded and protected. And I didn't…my plan was….yeah, you see….." she sighed. "I thought it would only be for a couple of hours Sam. I thought you were close by somewhere, you know, like in town. Then, I thought you'd be on your way within minutes of getting my message."

"Is Maggie still with him?"

"Of course she is. She's one tough old bird." Jody assured him. "She'll be there until you get there."

"You said it was Motor Lodge Inn?"

"Yup, can't miss it."

Sam hung up. It was never hard to find the motel Dean booked. "Cas, either push this car to 90 or pull over and let me drive."

Castiel refused. There was a disagreement. Cas won the argument. Sam won the wheel. Three hours later, they were parked next to the Impala. One minute after parking, the motel room door was hanging from one hinge, kicked-in when no one responded to Sam's insistent knocking.


End file.
